Goodbye, Little Yellow Bird
by AlexandraFinch
Summary: Allegiance doesn't always cease after the battle ends. Set during "Becoming, Part Two", and veers off from there.
1. Lacerate

**Lacerate**

Out of the corner of his eye, as a flurry of red-tipped nails clawed at his face and white fangs gnashed wildly toward his throat, Spike sighted a fleeting blur of blonde and the gleam of a sword. Spike became vaguely aware that Drusilla was gaining the upper hand on him, pushing his body closer and closer to the floor as she flailed above him wildly in blind rage.

His attention was diverted by the tell-tale arrogance and sadism dripping from Angelus's voice.

"No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away, and what's left?"

Spike couldn't hear the Slayer's response over Drusilla's shrill screams and growls, but he did take note of her resolute gaze. He had personally ended the lives of two previous slayers, including a tough-as-nails broad from the Bronx who fought indignantly to her last breath. As Spike stared at her steel glare, which reflected the betrayal and unadulterated anonymity, he thanked whatever god watching out after him that he only sought to kill the slayer and not bed her.

At the present moment, Spike's train of thoughts was shattered by Drusilla's long nails burrowing into the pale flesh of his neck. Spike howled in pain, simultaneously clutching at his neck to stem the blood flow and protect his trachea against her furious blows. His dark goddess, wild in her obsession with Angelus, had pressed him fully between the wall and a rotted, wooden piano and began opportunistically tearing at any exposed flesh.

Spike opened his mouth to attempt to beg Drusilla to cease her attack, but he knew from the crazed look in her eyes, it would just fall upon deaf ears. A second, more immediate concern seized his mind. For the first time in decades, he was in a dire situation. His sire was naturally stronger than he was, even in her mentally fragile state. Sure, she had beaten him into the ground before, but Spike had never once thought his dark love would be cruel enough to tear him to piece by piece. His sight became blurry at the edges, and his throat so impossibly dry. Despite no physiological need to breathe, Spike was panting and wheezing. If it were anyone else, he would've fought back, even on the brink of death; but Dru.. He resigned himself to his fate as Dru sliced her nails and fangs through his neck and torso, slowly slumping his head to the side, cold flesh against the cold concrete of the disused mansion.

In all his years of non-life, Spike had always assumed that Drusilla's face would be the last image he'd view before dissolving out of existence. However, he lay still – transfixed by the fight happening in the background. Bemused, Spike reasoned that the more evenly-matched battle was probably in the foreground, having the fate of the world at stake and all – whereas his small skirmish would only result in his dust scattering across the floor.

It was interesting. In his century-plus of attempting to rake up a slayer body count, he had never truly watched a slayer fight before. Sure, he had leaned back in the shadows as he watched a handful fight fledglings or weaker demons; and sure, he had ended the lives of two of them, but in the heat of the battle never examined their movements and expressions. For the first time, Spike was witnessing a slayer fight for her own life and, even more profoundly, the fate of the entire world.

It was too heavy for him. He wanted to shut his eyes tightly and will himself to fade away under the cold intensity of the woman he loved, but a light shown through the thin skin of his eyelids, like an annoying ray from poorly hung drapes. Spike cracked open one blue eye, and prepared to say one last witticism before fading off once again. An eerie light emanated from the ugly statue in the corner of the room, the one the Slayer and Angelus were dancing their way toward. He watched the Slayer's graceful movements as she shielded herself from his Grandsire's brutal blows. The light was growing bigger and bigger, and Angelus – although his frustration and rage were clearly written upon his face – seemed to grow giddy as soon as he glanced its way.

Angelus repeated an abbreviated version of a line he yelled earlier, but this time, it came out as a menacing whisper. "You're going to Hell, Buffy."

The Slayer stared at him, her former boyfriend towering above her. Angelus raised his sword, cornering her with her back against the now-blinding light.

Spike's thoughts unraveled. _Shit. The end of the world. Fuck. Angelus and Dru. My Dru. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Buffy. Fuck. I'm laying here on the floor, and this – THIS! - is my siren song. Shit, shit, fuck._

 _CRACK._

With a gleeful cry, Drusilla yanked Spike's leg out of its hip joint, causing some of the femur to shatter with it. Spike let out an agonizing cry, and the Slayer briefly took her eyes off Angelus to glance at him. _Stupid, stupid girl!_ In the moment, there were a lot of things he failed to grasp. Why was Drusilla still tearing at him when it was clear she was victorious in their small, personal battle? Why had she continued her assault even when the Slayer briefly gained the upper hand against her sire? Why had the Slayer even looked his way? He was no friend, a temporary ally at best. He was the type she was born to kill.

It happened in a flash. Sensing the opportunity, Angelus growled and lunged at his former lover, who was just steps away from the oppressively white light. Spike watched her swing her sword, making contact with Angelus's rapier, and – suddenly – she had the upper hand again. The centuries-old vampire stumbled toward the portal. This finally caught Drusilla's attention, and she flew over to her sire, catching him in her bony arms. Both vampires lost their balance and tumbled inches away from the statue. Swiftly, Angelus swung her toward the light in a desperate effort to stop his momentum; and suddenly, Drusilla, the love of Spike's unlife, was gone – gone - gone into the light, leaving a palely glowing statue in its wake.

Spike couldn't will himself to scream or cry, seemingly completely drained of blood, sound, and existence. He could only watch as Angelus roared in anger, and smashed one giant fist into the statue.

"YOU STUPID, STUPID BITCH!" He bellowed, advancing upon the Slayer. His demeanor suddenly shifted, although the intent did not. "You spoiled all of my fun." He mocked, with a perverse playfulness.

And, with that, Angelus once again lunged at the Slayer. "I guess we're just going to have to start from the be-"

".. 'Uffy?" The elder vampires' face fell from its macabre visage and back into its human form. "B-buffy?" The tiny blonde stood stiffly, blocking Angelus between her and the slightly illuminated statute. "What's happening?"

The Slayer softened her voice, so low that Spike strained to hear her, but he needed to focus on every word in an effort to distract himself from his infinite pain.

"Shh. Don't worry about it." Spike could vaguely pick up a sniffle, even though he could tell she was struggling to keep a calm composure. "I love you." She said even more softly.

The brutal vampire who had- just moments ago - attempted to sacrifice his lover to hell looked the Slayer in the eyes. Even from his inconvenient vantage point, Spike could see an almost genuine spark to his eyes. No one could manipulate like Angelus, but no one could emulate the genuine emotions playing across his face – fear, love, confusion, and an overwhelming concern for the woman standing in front of him.

"Close your eyes." The blonde whispered to him, tears threatening to break through at any moment. Her love, a man who was clearly enhanced by the soul of Angel, stared into her eyes for one last second, and then willingly obeyed her request. At that moment, Buffy stood back and drove her sword into his heart. Angel closed his eyes, almost as if he did not want any other image to enter his sight, and was engulfed into the portal.

With a pop, the light ceased to exist and the statue shattered. The victorious woman stood silently with her sword still pointed toward the empty pedestal. That was the last image Spike saw before his vision darkened to black.


	2. Residual

**Residual**

It had been hours (days?) before Spike regained consciousness. His blue eyes popped open violently as a burning section spread through his leg. A thin ray of light traced across the dark room, ending directly on the fallen man's left leg.

"FUCK!" He yelled, attempting to roll his body away from the ray. Pain seared through his entire body, not just from the sunbeam, but from hundreds of broad, deep cuts and a dislocated hip. He hissed as he began to roll again, using his one working leg to nudge himself behind the smashed piano. He looked around in lethargic confusion, questions slowly entering his mind. What had happened the previous night? Who in the bloody hell had bested him in a fight? Where _was_ he?

It had come back, in vivid flashes. Drusilla above him, screaming declarations of hatred and she shredded his torso with sharpened nails. The deal with the Slayer. Witnessing the Slayer sending her lover to hell. _His_ love being dragged into the portal, and disappearing into blinding light.

A dry sob he had been holding for hours had detached itself from his throat. If he only had the strength, he would've punched the wall, continuing his furious assault until he either brought the entire mansion or his fists disintegrated into bloody stumps. In his present state, he could only dig his fingernails into the hard wood of the piano and hope that it would release some of his stress.

Spike felt it before he saw it – a pair of eyes hollowing glancing in his direction. As soon as he whirled his head and caught sight of the blonde, she dropped her gaze to the ground and continued her distant stare. It was the slayer, presumably, curled against the corner with her arms wrapped around her knees. The first thought that rolled through his mind was a sneering "Pathetic", at least, that was the first thought he wanted to think. A mutinous stab of muddled sympathy shifted through him as he watched this small, shattered woman fold into herself.

"Slayer…" He whispered, not quite finding his voice through the mucus and blood coagulated in his throat. She didn't look up from the spot her eyes were fixed upon. "DAMN IT, SLAYER!"

The blonde looked up at him with a forlorn gaze, before returning to the familiar spot on the ground. A rage shot through Spike but faded one moment later when he moved slightly to the side, and his leg spasmed again. The vampire was growing very tired of the mutilated limb and, as he glanced around, he noticed the battle the night before had caused numerous fissures in the wall. Although he had regretted his survival from the night before, the quiet threat of the sun was becoming direr as the minutes ticked by.

Spike bit his tongue, swiveled on his back, aligned his leg against the wall, and surged forward. A roar of agony escaped his lips, one that went unnoticed by the tiny blonde in the corner.

"Slayer!" He called, becoming more annoyed as she failed to acknowledge him. "SLAYER! A little help here, hm?"

The Slayer, killer of his kind, glanced at him solemnly but made no attempt to move in his direction. Spike gritted his teeth. "Listen, Slayer, we had a deal. The deal was to ensure survival, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm not quite out of the woods yet." He gestured around at the multiplying rays of light.

Silently, she stood up and then immediately collapsed against the wall again. Deep cuts ran across her torso, her right wrist bent at an unnatural angle. Spike's eyes widened. Clearly, he wasn't the only one with perilous injuries. Incorrectly he had assumed that her standing victoriously, literally at the gates of hell, meant that she had remained relatively unharmed.

"Shit, Buffy, I –" Spike stopped himself. "Maybe we can help each other out, yeah? You fix my leg, and I get you to some sort of hospital?"

The Slayer shook her head. _That bloody little bitch, reigning in on their deal!_ Anger coursed through his veins, and as a ray of light nudged against his boot, resignation toward his fate was not far behind. Instead, she stood up again, bracing herself against the wall and began to stumble toward him, a trail of blood and torn clothing following in her wake. The century-old vampire froze and stared at her, amazed at her struggle toward him. She finally reached him, and slowly – agonizingly – grabbed his boot and raised his leg up toward her chest.

For the first time in hours (again, Spike wondered, days?), the Slayer spoke, "This may hurt a bit," before pushing her entire weight against the heel of his boot. An inhumane cry escaped Spike's lips as the pain jolted throughout his body, every nerve on excruciating fire. So engrossed in his agony, he did not notice his ally drop to the ground, completely drained of energy.

With a hiss, Spike wiggled his toes, slowly at first and then more vigorously as he realized feeling had come back to his leg. Just a few weeks prior, he had been confined to a wheelchair – courtesy of the woman who just now fixed his leg – and a fear had gripped him. A tiny thought had crossed his mind, cruelly presented in Drusilla's sing-song voice - _Maybe this time it's permanent, dear boy_.

A small surge of victory warmed him, as he stood up unsteadily but effectively. The Slayer laid strewn across the floor, eyes open, staring toward the pedestal. Just an.. undeterminable, but recent time before, Spike had everything he loved – Drusilla – cruelly torn from him. The demon in him wanted revenge, and at this vantage point, he could clearly claim his third slayer. Rip her throat out, spread her viscera across the room. Snap the little bird's neck with the simple twist of his hands. He would walk out of the mansion as the last man standing, a very broken man maybe, but Spike was always a survivor. The trail of legends that shadowed him would grow deeper and wider – He'd be known as the vampire who destroyed his grandsire AND the slayer all in one night. Drusilla, of course, would go unmentioned.. or maybe she would be romanticized as the dark beauty who sacrificed herself to save her lover. Yeah, that would do. The hurt of losing Dru would never dissipate, but maybe having an even larger chunk of the demon underworld trembling before him would be a nice consolation pri-

The small woman below him, too lost in her grieve to notice her wounds, began to moan in a low pitch. Her narrow arms gripped her sides in an attempt to keep her innards from spilling out, but she was doing a poor job as Spike could clearly see torn muscle and even some bone from his vantage point.

Well, Spike reasoned to himself, it wouldn't be quite the same story if he preyed upon a weakened slayer – weakened by his grandsire of all demons - like some sort of vulture. Without another thought, he swooped down and slung the lightweight woman over his shoulder.

As he walked toward the door, a nagging thought entered his mind, once again narrated by Drusilla. _It also wouldn't look good if you saved a Slayer's life._

To the empty room, Spike answered the taunt.

"Shut up, Dru."


	3. Rest

**Rest**

Buffy awoke, and realized she was drowning. She weakly flayed her arms in a wretched attempt to avoid a watery death. She inhaled – and then realized oxygen was entering her lungs and greedily sucked in another ragged breath. She wasn't drowning, no. Buffy raised her head from the balled-up threadbare blanket that was lazily fashioned into a makeshift pillow. She raised her head frailly, looking around the room with blurry vision.

The room was large, drafty, and almost completely empty – save for the moldy green cot she was laying on. Cold air seeped through the gray concrete of the floor and walls. Buffy attempted to sit up, but quickly abandoned the idea when pain shot through her entire body, every nerve stinging in protest. She bit back a groan of agony, and feebly wrapped the dingy blanket around her battered frame.

As she lay on the cot, trying to conserve body heat, her mind began to spin. Whatever had led up to this moment was completely absent in her mind, a blank spot that she desperately couldn't fill. Buffy closed her eyes tightly as she tried to collect her memory. _I'm Buffy Summers, okay, it's good I at least know my name. I have a mother, Joyce, and I'm in… high school? College? I love after-Christmas sales, and I think I have green eyes. Yeah, definitely green. I hate the taste of bananas, oh, and I kill vampires and assorted demons in my spare time.._

 _Oh!_ , Buffy's eyes popped open, _that would explain a lot_. The rest of her memories came flooding back like a broken dam. Willow, Giles, Xander. The history test she missed last week because she was too busy with slaying. How she traded in her virginity for her boyfriend's soul. The looming threat of said-demon boyfriend. A tenuous pact with a bleached blond vampire. Her own mother disowning her. Watching Spike torn to pieces by his unhinged sire. Looking deeply into Angel's eyes and exchanging declarations of love. Sending him to hell.

She couldn't hold it back – a mournful wail escaped from her lips. In that the back of her mind, Buffy knew that she should try to keep quiet; she still didn't know why she was in this room, and what lay behind the haphazard wooden door adjacent to the cot. However, the thought was immediately succeeded by another loud sob. Her small, battered body shook in anguish – she had failed.

Giles had been beaten by her former boyfriend, and may have lost his mind. Kendra, the Slayer who had devoted her entire life to her calling, had _lost_ her life because Buffy didn't think curses were _actually serious_. The ally she swore a tenuous allegiance to was murdered by Drusilla, as Buffy was busy trying to prevent the apocalypse. And Angel -

It was too painful to reflect upon. Buffy steered her focus back onto more practical matters, namely, where she was. Nothing about the barren room provided any clues – she could be in Sunnydale, or she could be in Afghanistan. Maybe the final battle was just an illusion – she had lost, and this was hell. Buffy hoped she wouldn't have to spend all of eternity in here, immobile on a dingy cot.

As she was resigning herself to her circumstances, the door creaked open. Despite the sheer agony of moving her limbs, Buffy quickly scooted to the end of the cot, and hugged her legs to her chest. Her vision was still blurry, but a human-like figure stood at the door. Focusing her dilated pupils on the intruder, she could make out a shock of almost-white hair.

"Hey, Slayer, 'bout time you woke up. It's check-out time at the Hilton."


	4. Exploration

**Exploration**

Somehow, she had miscalculated. In her recollection of last night, she remembered Spike's cold, motionless body pressed against the ground – his eyes open, but lifeless. Buffy was certain, standing before the empty pedestal, that she was the sole survivor of the nights' events. Although her memory was hazy, the feeling of absolute isolation was clear as day. Drusilla had slipped into the light, Angel was impaled and then sucked into hell, and Spike was dead on the ground.

It felt so real, so immediate. She couldn't have been wrong.

But Spike stood before her, impatiently tapping his one good foot as he leaned against a makeshift crutch. Although his leather duster and dark jeans hid the damage underneath, Buffy could tell that – although he clearly didn't die – he had come awfully close.

"Well, Slayer?" Spike questioned, irritation evident in his voice.

Unanticipated anger surged through Buffy. "What the _fuck_ , Spike?" she spat. "Where are we? What happened to me? What did you do?" Animosity tinged every word, and Buffy glared at him with a furious countenance.

Instead of countering her verbal attack, Spike roughly hurled a pile of material at her. Never taking her eyes from the vampire leaning against the door frame, Buffy picked through the pile. It was a misshapen men's sweater – a red, piled Hanes number – and a pair of faded cargo shorts. In any other situation, Buffy would've gagged and made a beeline to the nearest boutique; but she was acutely aware of the coagulated blood cemented to her clothing and the large, vertical rip straight down the side of her shirt.

Apprehensively, Buffy eyed the clothing, and then Spike, then back to the clothing, and once again to the door frame. As if sensing her predicament, Spike let out a large huff and ambled away from the room. The battered blonde sighed, running her hands over the rumpled fabric in front of her. She was no stranger to mid-day wardrobe changes but knew this time would be a challenge. Cautiously and slowly, Buffy raised her right arm above her head. She hissed in pain but carefully began tugging at the tattered shred of cloth that used to be her favorite shirt.

After five minutes of struggling, interspersed with a fair amount of swearing and crying out in pain, Buffy had succeeded in removing her top. She glanced down at her torso, and her stomach churned. Dozens of deep red gashes ran across her tanned skin, some still bleeding from the previous night. Dark bruises dotted her rib cage, and she was certain several of them were broken. She glanced at red sweater and hesitated – what sense would it make to put it on, when it would just get covered in blood?

While she was mulling over her limited choices, her hand skimmed over a gauzy cloth. Buffy lifted the dusty cargo shorts to discover a roll of bandages slipped into of the pocket. A sigh of relief escaped her, and she began to meticulously bandage her wounds. As she made her way up her chest, Buffy realized that one of her bra straps had been crudely by Angel – Angelus' – sword. Without another thought, she unhooked the remainder of the bra, flung it off, and began to work on the cuts scattered across her previously unmarred décolletage.

Once that mission was completed, Buffy steeled herself for her next Herculean task – getting her ruined pants off and slipping on the large pair of cargo shorts. To do so would require her to stand up, something that she was not looking forward to. _In retrospect, it was a really dumb idea to wear skinny jeans._

Counting to three, Buffy held her breath and stood up – she immediately fell to the ground and let out a surprised yelp. She stilled, struggling to ride out the waves of pain and hoping that Spike didn't storm back in to see what was taking so long. Three full minutes had passed, and the room was still completely silent. If Spike had heard her cry of pain, he had no intentions of checking up on her. Buffy lifted her arm up and gripped the side of the steel cot. She had fought huge, creepy demons before… surely she could change her clothing.

Dragging herself up to her knees, Buffy hesitantly stuck out one leg and stood shakily up. She swung herself up onto the bed and began to slowly pull off her jeans. A few minutes later, she was garbed in the ensemble Spike had crudely tossed at her. Patiently, Buffy waited for Spike to return to the room.. but he didn't.

An hour passed. Buffy was growing impatient. There was no way she could hobble out of the room unassisted, especially not knowing what was on the other side. "Spike!" She yelled. Couldn't he at least have tossed her a walking stick? He wouldn't just toss her some clothes, and then take off… could he?

Another fifteen minutes ticked by. "Spike?" Buffy sighed, a vocalization suggesting a mix of desperation and dread. Again, Buffy reminded herself, she literally saved the world last night – she could get out of this room. Standing on her sturdier leg, Buffy surged forward, dragging the more damaged limb behind her. Within three minutes, she reached the door, pausing to regroup as she leaned against the decayed wood.

Realizing she was at the threshold, Buffy slowly craned her head around the door frame. A short hallway extended to the right of her, and a concrete wall about ten feet to her left. Bracing herself, Buffy ambled down the hallway, alternating between each side of the wall for support. When she reached the end of the hall, she quickly noted a small, disgusting bathroom to the right, and a larger room the left. Presuming that the restroom was not an exit, Buffy chose to continue heading left.

She hadn't noticed before, partially from breathing heavily and swearing under her breath, but soft voices were emanating from the room. While she couldn't make out the words, the voices didn't seem threatening, but almost… dramatic? Limping forward, Buffy finally made her way into the large room, her eyes instantly landing on an ancient television set. The image on the screen was static-y; two people were speaking to each other, wildly gesticulating.

The rest of the room consisted of a steel door - which Buffy had quickly taken note of – a kitchenette off to the right, a small desk against a wood paneled wall, and a worn floral couch. The Slayer glanced around – weighing her options. Her stomach growled in its emptiness – when was the last time she ate? - and she still was bleeding from her wounds. Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst idea to rest on the couch for a few minutes, and then raid the kitchenette for food.

Slowly, but with resolve, Buffy ambled toward the couch. So absolutely exhausted from the exertion, she allowed herself to flop over the arm of the couch, falling free onto.. a body.

"OI! Slayer!"


	5. Shelter

**Shelter**

A pair of wounded, cold hands shoved her roughly off the couch – pale, bruised fingers clashing violently against her faded, cardinal-red sweatshirt.

"The hell, Slayer?" his azure eyes were ablaze. "Do you make it a habit of jumping on the first vampire you see?" His words were a double entendre, laced with mocking derision.

Buffy was in no position to fight, she was winded and aching from her short walk; nevertheless, she swung her elbow forward and then immediately back into the vampire's shin.

"OW! The fuck, bitch!" He bellowed, grasping toward her erratically. Buffy slid back as much as she could on the floor and readied her stronger leg to ward off the attack; but it wasn't needed, Spike slid to the ground, cradling his rib cage with his arm as he let out several rattling gasps.

Her green eyes flared in warning. "Don't." She bluntly instructed.

The still wheezing vampire nodded, signaling a temporary ceasefire. Both blondes stared at each other from their crouched positions on the floor, both still partially maintaining a defensive stance. With an unspoken agreement, Spike and Buffy simultaneously dragged themselves up onto the couch, situating themselves as far away as possible.

Minutes passed, and Buffy absentmindedly picked at the dusty floral fabric of the couch. The television program was still flickering on the screen, so low that only a few words were audible. The overly dramatic expressions of the actors, coupled with a static frame, signaled to Buffy that it was some sort of soap opera. Her focus, however, remained on the heavy breathing radiating from the man next to her.

"Why are you breathing like that?" She hadn't meant to sound annoyed, but her voice was tinged with irritation. "Wait, why _are_ you breathing?" Buffy narrowed her eyes at him.

Spike's focus remained on the low-budget soap opera. "It's not breathing." He answered, gazed fixed ahead and ignoring her as if he was talking to himself. "It's blood in my lungs – I'm jus' tryin' to get it out."

 _Oh, ick_. Buffy wanted to ask more questions – why was he sucking in oxygen like a vacuum? What good would that do? Don't vampires like blood, why would he want to get rid of blood? – but quickly decided that she didn't care. Besides, she could always ask Giles when she got out here; although she still didn't know where exactly _here_ was.

"Where exactly are we?" Buffy parroted her own thoughts, making no effort to conceal her eagerness to leave this dump immediately.

"Bomb shelter."

Buffy hadn't expected that answer – a different, dilapidated part of the mansion, sure,.. maybe the servant quarters- but a bomb shelter? She raised an eyebrow in surprise. "And just what are we doing a bomb shelter?"

A petulant sigh rose from Spike. "Well, I figure we had two options, Slayer – seek shelter down in this Eisenhower-era bachelor pad or be hunted down by the cult of ugly stone face.. and I don't think either of us are quite in fighting shape."

"The cult of.. what?"

"Acathla. Big ol' rock face. Apparently, there's a bunch of hooded psychopaths who wanted to bring about the end of the world – hence, why they're not very happy with us."

Buffy nodded, as if everything Spike explained was utterly reasonable, but something nagged at her. She switched topics.

"So, did you know about this cult before or after we took on Angelus?"

Spike gritted his teeth. "After, _obviously_. After you passed out, I saw some ominous shadows coming in, grabbed you and hightailed it."

Buffy mentally chastised herself for the uncertain murmur in her voice. "And, um, why did you bring me down here?"

A scowl formed on the weakened vampires face, and his bruised hands dug into the shapeless fabric of the couch.

An unease settled across Buffy. She _should_ expect Spike to be highly unstable. His mistress was gone, he was still visibly injured, and their provisional accord ceased the moment the statue shattered into millions of pieces.

After a few tense moments, Spike spoke, lowly and with a sense of finality. "We had an alliance, to keep each other alive and - you know, save the world- and I'm not sure it's concluded yet."

His eyes drifted to the steel door, and Buffy finally heard it. Over the low hum of the television, the haggard wheezing of her breath, and the blood rushing in her ears, she heard it. A barely perceptible sound emerging from beyond the steel door, up the metal steps beyond it, and against the rusted iron exit at the top.

 _scratch, scratch, scratch._


End file.
